DARA'S POV
I didn't think anything could be worse than facing Kamsi's mother.
Until the car ride home afterward.
Silence wrapped the SUV like a heavy blanket.
Not angry silence.
Not awkward silence.
A silence full of words neither of us knew how to say.
He didn't look at me.
I didn't look at him.
We just breathed the same air, stealing glances at each other's reflections in the window when we thought the other wasn't paying attention.
When we arrived at his penthouse (because apparently I "needed a debrief"), the city glittered beneath us like Lagos was showing off.
He poured himself a glass of water.
Nothing else.
No wine.
No whiskey.
Water.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
He stood by the window, staring down at the lights with a posture I had never seen on him before.
Smaller.
Tighter.
Almost… lonely.
I took a careful step forward.
"Kamsi…?"
He didn't turn.
Just breathed out, long and slow.
"She didn't have to talk to you like that," he said quietly.
So that was it.
His mother.
His anger wasn't loud.
It was quiet too quiet.
"I'm fine," I said softly.
"It was nothing."
"You shouldn't have had to," he replied.
A pause stretched between us.
A long one.
Then he spoke again:
"Do you know why I protect my father's company so fiercely?"
I shook my head.
He still didn't turn.
But his voice… his voice cracked.
"My father died because he worked too hard. Because he believed he had to prove himself every second. Because he didn't know when to stop."
I froze.
My heartbeat went still.
Kamsi continued, voice low:
"I was twenty-one. He collapsed during a meeting. Heart failure."
He swallowed.
"By the time I got to the hospital, he was already gone."
The room felt colder.
The city lights flickered against the glass, reflecting a man who had carried pain for too long.
"My mother thinks the company matters more than anything," he said.
"She's wrong. It cost us everything. It cost me my father."
I didn't breathe.
I didn't move.
I just listened.
He tightened his grip on the glass cup.
"He built BlackShield with his bare hands. He raised it, shaped it, fought for it… and it took him in the end."
A tremor ran through his voice barely there, but enough to break something inside me.
"I'm not trying to impress shareholders, Dara. I'm trying to make sure my father didn't die for nothing."
My chest ached.
For him.
For the boy he must have been.
For the man who carried grief like a shadow.
I stepped closer, gently touching his arm.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't pull away.
He just… breathed.
Slow.
Deep.
Like he'd been holding it for years.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"I'm so sorry, Kamsi."
He closed his eyes.
And when he spoke next, his voice was lower.
Softer.
Like he was speaking to the version of him that never got closure.
"I don't talk about him. Not to my family. Not to anyone."
Then, quietly
"But I'm talking to you."
My heart stopped.
He finally turned to face me
and his eyes…
Those dark, guarded eyes looked different tonight.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Human.
"Why?" I asked without thinking.
"Why tell me?"
He held my gaze for a long, silent moment.
Then he said the words that rearranged something in my chest:
"Because when I look at you… it feels safe."
Everything inside me went still.
Safe.
He felt safe.
With me.
The world blurred for a second.
The man who never let anyone close…
felt safe with me.
I didn't know what to say.
What to think.
How to breathe.
So I stepped closer almost without realizing it.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't back away.
He just watched me with that raw emotion he didn't know how to hide anymore.
"Dara…" he murmured.
My name.
Low.
Rough.
Soft around the edges.
Like a confession waiting to happen.
I should have stepped back.
I should have remembered the rule
No emotional attachment.
I should have remembered the contract, the pretense, the danger.
Instead…
I placed my hand over his.
Warm skin against warm skin.
His eyes dropped to our hands.
His breath hitched.
Then, slowly
he lifted his other hand and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
Not flirting.
Not seducing.
Just… touching.
Gently.
Carefully.
Like he didn't want to break me.
Or maybe like he was the one breaking.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?" I breathed.
"For listening," he said.
"For not judging."
A pause.
"For being here."
My heart cracked open.
This wasn't acting.
This wasn't fake.
This was real in a way that terrified me.
And before I could do something reckless like kiss him or confess how fast he was becoming important he took a small step back.
Just a step.
Enough to save us from whatever might have happened next.
"We should get some rest," he said, voice steady again.
"We have the board tomorrow."
I nodded.
But as I walked toward the elevator, my skin still tingled where he touched me.
And one terrifying question echoed in my mind:
If I'm falling…
is he falling too?
KAMSI'S POV
I've handled billion-naira deals with more ease than I handled tonight.
My mother's interrogation.
Her cutting tone.
The way her eyes sliced into Dara like she'd done something unforgivable by existing near me.
I expected Dara to shrink.
Most people did around my mother.
But she didn't.
She sat there with dignity nervous, yes, but not broken.
And when her voice trembled just a little as she answered questions…
I felt something tighten in my chest.
Something protective.
Something dangerous.
By the time we left, I was boiling.
I didn't want a driver.
I didn't want noise.
I wanted quiet… and Dara.
The car ride was torture.
Not because she spoke she didn't but because she was close enough for me to feel the warmth of her presence.
And all I could think was:
"She didn't deserve that treatment."
When we reached my penthouse, I should've let her go.
Sent her home.
Closed the door.
Followed the rules.
Instead, I asked her to come upstairs.
Because I needed a moment where I wasn't the CEO.
Where I wasn't a son trying to prove a point.
Where I could just… breathe in the same space as her.
I stood at the window, trying to swallow the heaviness inside me.
The city lights usually calmed me.
Not tonight.
Tonight they reminded me of everything I'd lost.
And Dara…
quiet, soft-footed Dara…
stood behind me like she knew.
When she said, "it was okay,"
it hit me harder than anything my mother had said all night.
She shouldn't have to "survive" dinner with my family.
Not because she was pretending to be my fiancée.
Not because I'd cornered her into this arrangement.
But because no woman — not even a fake one — deserved to be made to feel small.
The anger surprised me.
Anger rarely surprises me.
Then I said the thing I never talk about.
"My father."
And once I began…
I couldn't stop.
I told her the truth.
The truth I buried because it felt too heavy for anyone to carry with me.
The late nights.
The pressure.
The unspoken fear that I'd kill myself with success the same way he did.
The grief that clung to me like a shadow.
When she whispered, "I'm sorry,"
something inside me cracked.
She wasn't pitying me.
She wasn't judging me.
She wasn't stepping back.
She just… stayed.
No woman ever just stayed.
I turned to her, and her eyes
God, her eyes
held so much empathy that I felt seen in a way I hadn't in years.
That terrified me.
And it pulled me closer at the same time.
When her hand touched mine, I forgot every rule I made.
Every boundary.
Every reason this arrangement needed to be emotionless.
Her skin was warm.
Grounding.
And when I touched her hair gently, carefully
I wasn't thinking of acting.
I was thinking:
"If I touch her too long, I won't be able to stop."
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes softened.
And for one terrifying second, I wanted to kiss her.
I stepped back because I had to.
Not because I wanted to.
"Thank you… for listening," I said — the closest thing to a confession I could allow myself.
Because the truth was:
I wasn't talking to my fake fiancée.
I wasn't talking to my employee.
I was talking to the first person in a long time who made me feel like a man, not a machine.
And when she walked away…
my penthouse felt too big.
Too empty.
Too silent.
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
This wasn't part of the plan.
I wasn't supposed to feel anything.
Not for her.
Not for anyone.
But the truth I couldn't admit out loud?
I was already falling.
And I didn't know how to stop.